


The Shards of Our Past Affair

by LuckyLadybug



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death Fix, Character Study, Episode Related, Gen, Ghosts, Haunting, Out of Body Experiences, Spies & Secret Agents, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyLadybug/pseuds/LuckyLadybug
Summary: Post-The Odd Man Affair episode. It was strange enough to be haunted by the ghost of a former victim one time. Now Illya can't seem to escape the mysterious spectre, and neither of them is happy about it. And Napoleon is wondering what's going on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are not mine and the story is! This is a semi-follow-up to a well-liked oneshot I did called The Mist of Yesterday, in which Illya finds himself confronted by the ghost of an enemy agent he killed in The Odd Man Affair episode. This piece was largely inspired by the reception to that story, as well as by some short flashback scenes I wrote in the as-of-yet unfinished Fifty-Millionth Frenchman Affair. Those scenes will appear here as well, but they are a pinprick of the whole.

Illya sighed to himself as he settled into his living room chair with a book. The hot summer days had given way to cool autumn days and nights, of which he was perfectly pleased. But it had been a long and dull day at U.N.C.L.E. HQ and he was also pleased to be home.

His thoughts wandered from the pages of his book. He and Napoleon had only been back from London after _The Odd Man Affair_ for a couple of days. They had both quickly adapted back into the swing of things in New York, but while Illya was not about to tell Napoleon of the bizarre experience he had had on their first night back, he was certainly still thinking of it.

Why would the ghost of an enemy agent have visited him? He wasn't even sure he believed in ghosts. But the only other alternative was that he had hallucinated the experience, and he couldn't think why he would. He knew for a fact that killing that agent hadn't bothered him in the least until Napoleon had pointed out that it might not have been necessary. And even at that, he was certain he hadn't been so troubled after that conversation that he would have invented a spectre to tease and torment him.

Part of him still wanted to believe that the experience had only been in his mind. Accepting that the supernatural was real was not high on his list of things to do this autumn. On the other hand, he wasn't sure which was worse: the thought of ghosts or the thought that he had become so upset by a split-second act, the likes of which he had performed countless times before, that he had imagined a visit from his latest victim.

Napoleon had told him before that if he ever stopped feeling, he wouldn't be fit to be an agent. Naturally they didn't want to be killing machines. That was up to the agents specifically trained as assassins, and thankfully, their services weren't needed that often. But Illya honestly wasn't bothered by eliminating whatever enemy agents stood between U.N.C.L.E. and peace. If the killing of an enemy agent could save even a few innocent lives, it was more than worth it to him.

Also on his mind were the words of Bryn Watson just before they had left her in the London pub. He and Napoleon were like Albert Sully in that they thrived on danger—not because they were daredevils, but because living lives of danger was how they made the best and most significant difference in the world. Illya couldn't imagine another line of work being anywhere as fulfilling for either of them. He silently wished Albert luck in his continuing undercover mission as Raymond.

It was about then when he realized how far his mind had drifted from the book. He had kept reading while he was thinking, but he hadn't absorbed any of it. Frowning, he turned the page back to read it again.

"Kuryakin?"

He nearly dropped the book altogether at the sudden, eerie voice. "Oh no," he muttered, staring at a spot in front of the chair as a strange mist came up from the floor. Just as it had the other night, the mist formed tendrils that lazily swirled until they parted to reveal the transparent form of the enemy agent he had stabbed in London.

"What are you doing here again?" Illya snapped.

"If I could choose where I go, I wouldn't ever come here," Mr. Ecks sneered.

"I am still not sure that you don't choose," Illya frowned. "What better way to bother your killer than to not leave him alone?"

Ecks started to circle the chair. "So this time you believe I'm really here?"

“Frankly, I don’t know what I believe,” Illya retorted, watching him with a wary eye. “I could have fallen asleep reading, although I do not remember it.”

“Let’s say that you didn’t,” said Ecks, and he pulled his coat closer around him as he stopped circling and instead perched on the edge of Illya’s coffee table. “You said that there would have to be a reason why I can’t rest in peace for me to really be here, bothering you.”

“I also said that would be your problem, not mine,” Illya said in irritation. “If you are hoping I can tell you what’s wrong in your afterlife, I cannot.”

“Well, I would say that you must be the reason why I can’t rest in peace, since I keep coming to you,” Ecks remarked. “You did kill me, you know.”

“Yes, and had I known then that I would be unable to escape you, I might have let you live,” Illya said dryly. “That would have been better for both of us.”

“Unfortunately, it’s too late for that now.” Ecks folded his arms.

"So, if I am to be stuck with you, what am I going to do with you?" Illya frowned.

"Treat me as a house-guest or an annoyance. Or both," Ecks said with a wicked smile. "What are you reading?" He bent down to try to see the book's cover.

" _Crime and Punishment_ ," Illya said flatly.

"Oh, that's appropriate." Ecks stood up. "Mind if I read over your shoulder?"

"I do, but even if you tried anyway, I doubt you would get anywhere." Illya held the book so Ecks could really see the cover. "It's an original Russian edition."

"Ah. You're right, it wouldn't make any sense to me. They didn't teach me Russian. Not beyond a few basic words, anyway."

"Enough to make sure you had the right victim before striking, I suppose," Illya grunted.

"Sour grapes, Kuryakin," Ecks sneered. "Didn't they do the same with you?"

"It all depended on what my mission was," Illya said coolly. "I was never merely an assassin."

"Neither was I," Ecks retorted, his obnoxious front fading to anger at the obvious insult. "I was a spy, just like you."

"Not 'just like me,' considering the nature of your employers." Illya set the tome aside. There would be no reading as long as this character was around.

"The things I did were very much like what U.N.C.L.E. has agents like you do," Ecks said.

"But the motivation was vastly different."

"You might be surprised. I didn't agree with my employers most of the time, but some of them actually thought they could achieve world peace."

"By establishing a worldwide dictatorship, no doubt." Illya got up. "And why would you have worked for them if you did not agree?"

"It was either that or death," Ecks answered coldly. "At least if Zed had taken over, I would have been in a higher position and could have done something to change how the organization was run."

"You actually believe that?" Illya shook his head. "You poor, misguided fool. You never would have been given any real power." He paused. "But for the sake of debate, what would you have done to change things had you been given the chance?"

"For one thing, I wouldn't have forced the organization's orphans to stay there under threat of death," Ecks said bitterly.

"That is what your organization was doing?" Illya frowned. "I can't say I'm surprised. They held respect for no one, not even children."

"While U.N.C.L.E. is so good," Ecks mocked.

"At least U.N.C.L.E. never deliberately harms the innocent."

"Are you sure U.N.C.L.E.'s actions are always so aboveboard?" Ecks' eyes flickered. He seemed to like the discomfort that went through Illya's eyes. "Even if you and Solo are the most trusted field agents, do you really think your Mr. Waverly tells you everything? You already know that there are U.N.C.L.E. agents specifically trained as assassins. I wonder what dark secrets your commander has kept from even you."

"No matter what they are, they can't be anything like the activities your organization engaged in," Illya shot back.

Ecks started to walk around the room. "I'll admit that U.N.C.L.E. is different from that," he said. "I'm just saying that maybe it isn't squeaky clean. I doubt that any spy organization is, no matter their goals."

"I doubt it as well," Illya said coolly.

Ecks continued to walk, seeming restless. Illya watched, wondering if there was anything he could do to get this unwelcome visitor out of his apartment.

“Why are you not with your partner?" Illya asked at last. "You’re both dead. You should be with him and not with me.”

“I’d rather be with him,” Ecks immediately replied, his eyes burning as he turned to look at Illya. “But how do you know he’s dead? Maybe he got away.”

“He’s dead,” Illya said matter-of-factly. “He attacked a former female agent in a fit of blind rage, babbling some nonsense about blaming her for what happened in the park. He was eventually shot by a female sentry in your organization. It was an accident, but nothing could be done for him. I saw him lying dead.”

He wasn’t expecting Ecks’ reaction. The spectre fell back, looking haunted himself. “I thought he was alright,” he said, his voice vague and far away. “I thought if he wasn’t, we would have met up.” Suddenly angry, he leaped forward at Illya, his coat swirling open at the motion. “Instead I’m stuck here with you, my killer! Does that mean he’s haunting some female sentry?!”

“I don’t know,” Illya said honestly. “I’m still having trouble believing any of this is truly happening.” He paused, weighing his words. “If you cared for him, I’m sorry. He certainly seemed to care a great deal about you.”

“What do you know about it?” Ecks asked, sounding broken and saddened again.

“Both of the times I saw him after I stabbed you, he behaved as though he was reacting to that. It was a far stronger reaction than most people would have for someone who was only a comrade and not a friend.” Illya stood, closely watching his ghostly visitor.

Not facing him, Ecks merely gave a nod. “Yes,” he admitted quietly. “We were friends, Kuryakin. Just like you and Solo.”

“How do you know about Napoleon and I?” Illya frowned. He wasn't sure he liked that this character was aware of that friendship. Not that he could use it against Napoleon and Illya, but it still made Illya feel very uncomfortable, all things considered.

A humorless shrug. “How do I know anything about you?” Ecks said morosely. “I know your name, where you live, and who is most important to you.” He turned back to face Illya. “We fought on opposites sides, but on some things we’re not so different, you and I.”

“And what would you do about this information that you have obtained?” Illya asked warily.

Ecks smirked at him now, but it was without his usual sass. “Nothing, even if I could. What would be the point?"

"Some people don't need a point," said Illya.

Ecks shrugged. "We have our separate lots in life, even though we are in the same line of work. We never would have even crossed paths if not for that one fateful case."

"Yes, but that 'one fateful case' has left you dead."

"Even so, I have no desire to try to take revenge on you, Kuryakin. Certainly not by harming your friend.”

Illya considered that. Ecks could be lying, and Illya's suspicious side wanted to remain wary. Yet even so, for some reason Illya believed him.

“Thank you for telling me that," he said. "Even if it is an irrelevant issue.”

“I aim to please,” Ecks said with a bit of a sarcastic sneer. But from the sadness in his voice and his stance, Illya was all the more sure he was telling the truth about not intending to harm Illya or Napoleon. The desire wasn't there. What was present instead was both resignation and hopelessness. He was a spy whose usefulness had faded out—and for a spy, that meant there was nothing left.

Illya had to wonder—would death be like this for him someday? Would he still want to continue as he had for years in protecting the world by being an U.N.C.L.E. field agent and not be able to? Even if he would go to a better afterlife, would he feel trapped and unfulfilled?

"Tell me something," he said at last. "Haven't you been anywhere besides here? Don't you know what else is out there? Whether there truly is a Heaven or a Hell?"

"What is Heaven?" Ecks returned. "What is Hell? Are they really other realms above and below the mortal world? Or are they all around us? Maybe they are both what we make of them. Maybe this is my Hell, because it doesn't feel like any Heaven."

"And so your Hell puts me in Hell as well?" Illya frowned. "That hardly seems orderly."

Ecks sneered. "I don't know the nature of God any better than you do," he said. "Maybe He isn't a God of order after all."

"Or maybe," Illya mused, "this has nothing to do with the nature of God. Perhaps you are in Limbo, put there by your own unrest. But that would go back to what I said about something being wrong with you that you cannot move on."

"If that's true," Ecks said, "it almost looks like you're supposed to help me be able to." He smirked. "Maybe that's your punishment for killing me instead of finding a way to knock me unconscious as per U.N.C.L.E.'s usual policies."

"It would certainly be a heavy punishment," Illya said flatly. "And who would know less about how to help someone move on than someone who never even expressly believed in spirits or the afterlife?"

"Odd, isn't it," Ecks whispered, "that I of all people am the one to show you they exist."

A sudden burst of icy air whipped past Illya and he spun around to look. He was alone.

He stood there, narrowing his eyes at the eerie stillness. "Ordinarily I would think you were gone," he said aloud to the silence of the room. "But after you reappeared once, I am going to assume you will probably do it again."

It wasn't really a thought he relished. But it seemed quite likely that he had not heard the last of that mysterious character.


	2. Chapter 2

It was several days before Illya saw Mr. Ecks again. By that time he had all but forgotten the strange ex-spy in the midst of a bizarre case that had dropped on him and Napoleon. The case had involved a good deal of globe-trotting, and now that it was over at last, Illya was back home and placing his dinner on the table.

“I see you’re just about to sit down to eat, Kuryakin.”

Illya stiffened, but didn't turn around at the now-familiar voice. “Had I known you were intending to drop by, I would have prepared something appropriate for you.” Illya’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “What is it spirits eat, anyway?”

“That is top-secret information.” Ecks wasn't facing Illya, but the sneer was clearly audible.

“Well, whatever. I hardly intend to let an encounter with you spoil my appetite.”

“You don’t let anything spoil your appetite.”

“I consider that very wise.” Setting the pot-holder aside, Illya sat down at the table and began to dish up his meal.

Ecks decided to sit across from him. "Were you involved with a case?"

Illya didn't look up. "I was. It's over now."

"I miss the excitement of a case," said Ecks. He folded his arms on the table. "As one spy to another, you surely know how that feels. Tell me about it."

"I would rather not, thank you." Finished with his serving, Illya took up the knife and fork and began to cut the meat and potatoes. Then he paused, a thought occurring to him. "So what happens to you when you're not here?"

Ecks shrugged. "I have no idea. I sink into oblivion then."

Illya took a bite of potato. "I must say, you have the strangest afterlife I've ever heard of."

"Don't think I don't know it," Ecks grunted. "I don't even know where my body is buried."

"I don't even know what happened to it," Illya said flatly. "Someone—Mr. Wye, I assume—spirited it out of the park. You will forgive my terminology."

"Of course," Ecks sneered.

They sat for a moment in silent while Illya ate. Ecks then ventured, "No Solo tonight?"

"Napoleon generally likes to celebrate the end of a case with a date," Illya said. "I preferred to stay home."

"Have you told him about me?"

"No." That came out a lot stronger than Illya had really intended.

"Oh, I see." Ecks leaned back in the chair. "Afraid he'll think you fell off the trolley?"

"We don't confide everything about our personal lives to each other," Illya said stiffly.

"Maybe not, but isn't the idea that if you suspect you might not be functioning at your highest level, you need to warn your partner?"

"By now I am quite willing to believe that you are actually here, as much as it pains me to admit it." Illya finished his portion and went for seconds. "At least it means I am perfectly sane."

"Bravo, Kuryakin!" Ecks leaned forward again. "The lifelong skeptic has been forced to accept that just maybe the paranormal is real."

"Are you saying that you have always been a believer?" Illya grunted, unimpressed.

"I wouldn't say that," Ecks shrugged. "Part of me wanted it to be real, just so that this rubbish life wouldn't be all there is, but it was just an idle hope. And I certainly didn't want this to be real." He gestured at himself. "I could be doing something far more productive."

"And I really wish you would go and do it," Illya said flatly. "Maybe if you concentrate very hard, you could go somewhere else."

"Don't you think I've tried that?" Ecks got up and started to pace around the kitchen. "I want to go to wherever Wye is, but I can't. I'm stuck here with you!" His usual cheeky behavior had faded, giving way to a rare burst of frustration and anger.

Illya fell silent. What would be the reason for a situation like this? Under other circumstances, he really wouldn't care much that an enemy agent was in such a quandary. But when he had been dragged into it as well, he really wished he could help Ecks find a solution.

"I don't know what to do," he said then. "Nor do I know who might know. Perhaps a mambo or a witch doctor."

"And are you willing to risk the damage to your reputation by sending for one and bringing them to your flat?" Ecks asked.

Illya looked hard at him. "If it would get you out of my life, then yes, I think I would be willing."

"I wonder what Solo would think," Ecks quipped.

"I wouldn't necessarily tell him," Illya retorted. "Although I would be more likely to tell him than anyone else I know."

"He might simply find out, since he lives in the same building."

"He wines and dines for as long as he can," Illya pointed out. "Perhaps I can send for someone tonight." He wasn't entirely sure he was kidding.

"Are you really that afraid of him knowing?" Ecks folded his arms. "I wouldn't be ashamed of Wye knowing."

"Are you so certain?" Illya shot back. "What if the situation were truly reversed and you were the one being haunted by my ghost? Would you really want to tell Mr. Wye that one of your victims wouldn't leave you alone?"

"Why not?" Ecks snapped in defiance. "He's the only one who'd actually care about it!"

That gave Illya pause. He and Napoleon really hadn't known each other that long, and they had been friends even less, but Napoleon had certainly risked a lot for him on more than one case. He was trustworthy.

Of course, that wasn't really the issue. They had even shared some serious discussions before, such as when they had first discussed killing Ecks and whether it had been necessary. Napoleon would certainly be interested and concerned by Illya's news. But Illya really wasn't sure he wanted to share it. How would he even approach a subject like that? "Oh, Napoleon, remember that enemy agent I stabbed in London? He showed up in my apartment and now he won't leave me alone."

"Are you saying you actually did tell Mr. Wye everything?" Illya finally said in what he wasn't sure was disbelief or amazement. "I should think you would have been taught that's deadly for an assassin or a spy."

"Of course you always have to be prepared for a double-cross, even from your own partner," Ecks replied. "But Wye never would have betrayed me. You should know it. By your own words, you basically said that Wye died trying to avenge my death." He folded his arms. "We're not taught to do that."

"No," Illya mused. "I'm sure you wouldn't have been."

"What about you, Kuryakin? Do you trust Solo with your life?"

It was strange how eyes could bore into one's soul even when covered by shades. "Of course I do," Illya snapped without hesitation. "That is necessary when working with a partner."

"Then why don't you want to tell him about me?"

"It isn't anything personal," Illya frowned. "I have never confided in anyone. Certainly not on a topic like this."

Ecks actually raised his sunglasses to look at Illya more clearly. "And I thought I was alone being raised by fanatics. I didn't have anyone to confide in until Wye came along, but when he did and we started working together, I knew I could open up to him. You, you've been alone by choice, even when you could have confided in someone. Maybe I was wrong when I said that Wye and I were friends _just like_ you and Solo."

Illya really didn't like this conversation. "I don't need an enemy agent to tell me about myself," he snapped.

"Maybe you simply don't need anyone," Ecks quipped.

Illya scowled. "Napoleon and I are close, in our own way." They each trusted the other with his life. During downtime, they pranked and snarked at each other, but all in good fun. It took a certain type of closeness to engage in those activities, even if Illya wasn't ready to open up about having a ghost in his residence.

"I guess you definitely do have 'your own way.'"

Illya regarded him in mounting irritation. "Here's a question for you. You say that you always confided in Mr. Wye. Do you think he reciprocated?"

Ecks fell back, stunned by the sudden query. "Sometimes he did," he retorted.

"But not all the time," Illya prompted.

". . . No, I don't think so," Ecks admitted. Abruptly defensive, he added, "But he just didn't want to burden me with anything else. He felt I had enough to deal with as it was."

"Oh yes, naturally." Illya's voice dripped with sarcasm. His eyes narrowed as he said, "It doesn't feel very good, does it? Having your precious relationship questioned?"

Ecks flinched. "No, it doesn't."

Suddenly Illya was angry. "You're a self-righteous, judgmental extremist. Your kind are all alike. I don't have to listen to your opinions of me or of my interaction with Napoleon or anyone else!"

Ecks let his sunglasses drop back over his eyes. "Are you sure I'm the one being judgmental, Kuryakin? We both know you've been judging me since the moment you knew of my existence. Maybe you just don't want to think that I could be saying anything of value."

"That is ridiculous," Illya scoffed.

"That I could be saying anything of value or that you don't want to think I can?"

"I am not being judgmental," Illya retorted. "I know what you are and I know how you think. And I'm not about to allow your mind games to torment me!"

"Alright," Ecks said agreeably. "What if I said you're a glowing example of Russia and its absolutes? That you have a very 'If you're not with me, you're against me' attitude that's typical of your country? That you were clearly an asset to Russia and its ideals when you were over there and it's surprising they would even let you run off to join U.N.C.L.E.?"

"I would say you know nothing about me," Illya snapped, "which you do not."

Ecks came over closer. "And you know nothing about me," he said darkly. "I don't appreciate how you think you have me all figured out."

"I suppose I think that as much as you think you know all about Napoleon and me," Illya said coolly.

Ecks' lip curled and he stepped back. "I never said that," he said. "I only wondered why you wouldn't want to confide in Solo. Maybe I think I have you figured out," he sneered, "but I couldn't begin to understand you and Solo."

"And you will never get the chance, if I have anything to say about it!" Illya boomed.

A knock at the door froze them both. "Illya?" came Napoleon's confused voice.

Illya could hear the concerned inflection in his partner's tone. "Napoleon?" He stood and walked through the kitchen and into the living room, hoping his voice sounded calm and normal. "That was a short date, wasn't it?"

"Not all of them involve dancing until dawn." Napoleon turned the knob and found it was locked. "Are you alright in there?"

"Yes, Napoleon. Everything is fine." Illya reached the door and looked back at Ecks, who was smirking at him.

"If everything is fine, whom were you screaming at just now?"

"Ah. I . . ." Illya's gaze darted around the room as he searched for a legitimate excuse. "I became much too involved with the characters in the book I was reading."

Now Ecks had slumped against the wall, silently laughing.

"Really?" Napoleon sounded doubtful. "I've never known you to do that before."

"You rarely see me when I'm reading," Illya truthfully pointed out. "If we're on a case, I make an effort not to become that involved with my book."

"Hmm. I suppose that makes sense. People can become that involved with film or television, so why not books?"

"Exactly," Illya pounced.

"Mind if I ask just what book was so emotionally involving?"

"Crime and Punishment," Illya answered without hesitation, remembering the still-unfinished volume in his living room . . . and what had happened the last time he had tried to read it.

"I see. Perhaps I will have to look into that one." Napoleon paused. "If you're sure you're alright, I'll be moving along now. People are starting to wonder why I'm calling through your door."

"Of course," said Illya. "Yes, everything is fine. Goodnight, Napoleon."

"Goodnight."

Illya listened as the footsteps moved away from the door and traveled up the hall. Then, sighing, he turned away. Napoleon had always been good at reading people, but even if he wasn't, Illya was afraid his performance had been mediocre at best. Mr. Ecks had certainly found it hilarious. Napoleon probably hadn't been fooled for a minute. And what if he had heard more than Illya's final, booming statement? What if he had been listening to Illya's side of the conversation for some time?

Maybe, Illya reflected, he _should_ tell Napoleon the truth. Not saying anything might make that sticky situation even stickier. But at least he had the comfort of knowing that Napoleon wouldn't do something like sending for the little men in the white jackets without talking to Illya again first.

"Well," he said aloud, "I suppose you're having the last laugh tonight."

When there was no response, Illya frowned and focused on the room. The deceased but very restless ex-enemy agent was nowhere to be seen.

Illya let out a heavy and exasperated sigh. "Of course," he muttered. "And how long will it be before you come back to torment me further?"

He trudged back to the kitchen, where the sight of the remaining food lifted his spirits enough that he sat down to dine on thirds. As he ate, he pondered on the bizarre encounters.

Was he the only U.N.C.L.E. agent who had ever experienced something like this? Part of him wanted to know, but not if inquiring into the matter would reveal the truth and make him look crazy. He seriously doubted that any agents who might have been haunted by their victims would have ever wanted to make it known. If they had, they had probably found themselves on psychiatrists' couches or worse. Illya had absolutely no intention of that ever happening to him.

At least, he silently mused, Mr. Ecks had only turned up in the apartment and never at U.N.C.L.E. HQ or worse, on a case.

Hopefully his relief was not premature.


	3. Chapter 3

Illya arrived at work at the proper time the next day and settled in at his desk after receiving his badge from the receptionist. He still needed to make his report for the case he and Napoleon had just finished, so he set a stack of folders to the side of the desk in order to begin typing. Soon he was so caught up in the memories of the case and how to phrase them in his report that he didn't initially notice he wasn't alone.

"Hello, Kuryakin."

Illya jumped a mile and at the same time hit the space bar far too many times. "I knew I was jinxing myself when I was grateful you hadn't shown up here," he said frostily. As he turned to look, he found Mr. Ecks sitting on the edge of the desk, next to the folders.

Ecks just shrugged. "I told you I can't control where I show up. But it always seems to be around you."

"I wonder what will be next," Illya said sarcastically. "Appearing before me during a very critical moment on a case?"

"I wouldn't count it out." Ecks smirked. "At least you seem to be in a better mood than when I left you before."

"No thanks to you." Illya gave him a withering look. "I need to finish this report. Do you mind?"

"No." Ecks slid off the desk and came to stand behind Illya. "You were fighting a megalomaniac who thought that breaking all Ten Commandments would make him surpass Alexander the Great?!" He straightened and smirked. "No wonder you didn't want to tell me about it."

"I barely want to tell Mr. Waverly," Illya retorted, holding a hand in front of the report. "Unfortunately, that is a necessity."

"That plan doesn't even make the least bit of sense," Ecks snarked. "Didn't he realize that Alexander the Great wouldn't give a flying fig about the Ten Commandments? He wasn't Jewish."

"He wasn't the sort of person who could be reasoned with," Illya said. "Quite frankly, it wouldn't surprise me if he was using that plot as an excuse to break every Commandment because he simply wanted to be that lascivious."

"It wouldn't surprise me either," Ecks giggled. "The world is filled with people who just want to be bad."

"Such as yourself and Mr. Wye?" Illya said without skipping a beat.

Ecks was suddenly not amused. "What is it with you, Kuryakin? You're so convinced that Wye and I are practically the Devil incarnate."

"Neither of you particularly endeared yourselves to me," Illya said coolly. "But before you say anything else, I realize that extremists tend to think of themselves as the 'good guys.'"

"I never liked those idiots," Ecks sneered. "The ones thinking the organization really was sacred. At least Zed wasn't so hypocritical. He knew he was after absolute power and that the organization was scarcely sacred at all. As for myself, I didn't have a choice about being part of things. I was all too happy to jump on Zed's bandwagon and give the finger to an organization that had always imprisoned me. I don't have to tell you more than that. And Wye's motivations are not your business."

"I suppose it depends on how badly you want me to understand the two of you," Illya replied.

"I don't really care, Kuryakin," Ecks said. "Why should I want you of all people to understand us? But I still think that my opinion of you was not incorrect. You do believe in absolutes. Wye and I worked for an organization you can't tolerate. Therefore, we must be scum, just like every other person who worked for it."

Illya clenched his fists. "You're right that I have a difficult time seeing you as anything other than extremists. They are among the scum of the earth. Regardless of your personal viewpoints, you worked for that organization and furthered its goals. I find that very hard to understand . . . or forgive."

Ecks snapped up and circled the chair, his eyes dark. "I don't need your forgiveness, Kuryakin," he scoffed. "It's nothing to me if you forever carry a dark feeling towards me in your heart. That's your problem."

Illya turned to watch him. "And how do you feel towards me?" he shot back. "It occurs to me to wonder if you are bitter because of how I ended your life instead of rendering you unconscious. Perhaps that is why you are restless and unable to leave me alone."

Ecks turned away. "You place too much importance on yourself."

"You said you don't know why you cannot be at rest," Illya pointed out. "Why couldn't it be that?"

Ecks looked back at him over his shoulder. "I guess technically it's possible."

"You had better think about it," Illya insisted. "If it is possible, maybe you can acknowledge it and figure out how to work past it. Then we would both be happier."

"I already know it's just something to be expected in the spy trade," Ecks replied, turning away again. "If you meet an enemy agent on a case, chances are only one of you will walk away from it."

"You've said that, yet I can hear a definite bitterness in your words." Illya watched him carefully.

Ecks looked down at an open folder on Illya's desk. "If I feel any bitterness, maybe it's because you went against U.N.C.L.E.'s standard policy and killed me when there would have been another way. With just about any other organization I would expect death, but from U.N.C.L.E. I would have expected mercy."

"If it had been up to Napoleon, you would have had it," Illya said. "It was just your bad luck that I came up with the solution before Napoleon had a chance to knock you out."

Ecks spun around to face him. "Oh yes. It was my bad luck that I made an amateur mistake and didn't realize I was being followed by you and Solo. And it was my bad luck that I encountered one of the most ruthless agents of U.N.C.L.E. In other circumstances I might have liked to engage you in a battle of wits and skills, but I never had the chance. To be dead because of bad luck is so ignoble, so ridiculous!"

"That is the risk of the spy game." Illya stood, regarding the spectre with cold eyes. "Every one of us takes that risk every day. Even someone who has been an excellent agent for years can make an amateur mistake and end up dead. It's part of being human."

Ecks was silent for a moment. "Odd to hear you preach about humanity," he remarked, "when you're one of the most aloof and almost robotic U.N.C.L.E. agents. Or so they say."

"I have heard similar tales about you." Illya's voice remained even.

Ecks finally started to turn around, smirking again. "We're strangely alike, you and I. Even if you don't want to believe it. Not just in certain physical attributes, but in our occupation and how we handle it."

"But not in motivation." Illya sat down again. "As much as I hate to type this, I must finish this report before I'm called on another assignment. If you wish to stay, you will have to be quiet."

"Or I could just wander around the building," Ecks quipped. "I've never been in U.N.C.L.E. HQ before. I'm understandably curious."

Illya scowled. "It's not as though I can stop you. At least you can't really do any damage . . . unless someone else can see or hear you."

"Or unless I'm a poltergeist." Ecks reached out, attempting to knock the folders off the desk. He could not.

"Thank goodness you are not." Illya began to type again.

Ecks soon grew bored and wandered over near the open doorway to the office. At that moment, Napoleon walked in and walked through the spectre. "Illya?"

Illya immediately whirled around. Although he managed to keep his expression impassive, he had to admit to some very keen inner satisfaction at Ecks' uncomfortable and extremely disturbed visage. "What is it, Napoleon?"

"Mr. Waverly was just asking me about your report," Napoleon said. "Ah, I see you're working on it now."

"Yes. I should have it ready within the hour." Illya turned back to the desk to start typing once more.

Napoleon hesitated. "Ah, Illya . . . were you on the telephone right before I came in? It sounded like you were talking to someone again."

Illya was not pleased. I knew I should have shut that door when I came in, he silently berated himself. Aloud he said, "No, I was not on the telephone." It would be useless to lie about it anyway; the switchboard would have no record of it.

"Getting overly involved in your report?" Napoleon watched him for a moment. "I've never known you to talk about them aloud unless you're with someone."

"I am very uninvolved with my report, Napoleon, and as you yourself said, Mr. Waverly wants it."

"Yes." Taking the hint, Napoleon headed back to the door. This time Ecks scrambled out of the way.

Illya typed for a moment and then looked up, sensing the other mortal presence was still there. "Napoleon?"

Napoleon lightly tapped his fingers on the doorframe. "Illya, if anything's bothering you . . ."

"Why would anything be bothering me?" Illya retorted. "Except perhaps how completely useless we were regarding this madman's defeat?" He glowered at the typed paragraphs. "It pains me to record it for preservation." Somewhere behind him, he could easily imagine that Ecks was quietly laughing again.

Napoleon sighed. "I'm not all that proud of it myself," he admitted. "But I just try to focus on the fact that he was defeated. Even if we were not the direct instruments of his downfall, we can at least be grateful of that."

"Yes, that is true." Illya studied his report. "I will have to be content with that."

Napoleon gave a nod. "I'll see you after you finish your report." With that he headed out of the office.

Illya resumed typing, hoping against hope that if he did not acknowledge Ecks, the conversation would not begin again. Of course, it was a vain hope.

"You failed your mission, Kuryakin?"

"I hoped you had disappeared." Illya didn't look over. "Yes, that is the only way to put it. Although if he hadn't been defeated by someone else, I am certain that Napoleon and I would have foiled his plans."

"Go ahead and keep thinking that, if it makes you feel better." Ecks half-circled the desk and came to stand behind it, facing Illya. "I like to tell myself that if you hadn't stabbed me, maybe I still would have completed my assignment at some point. Everyone does it when they fail."

"How insightful." Illya kept typing.

"You're determined not to be jarred from your work, aren't you."

"Exactly. So if you would kindly leave, I will finish typing this humiliation of a report before Mr. Waverly asks for it again."

Ecks shrugged. "I have nowhere to go. I think I'll just stay here instead."

"Wandering U.N.C.L.E. HQ no longer holds intrigue for you?"

"If it's going to involve everyone walking through me like I'm not here? It most certainly doesn't." Ecks sat down in a chair with folded arms.

Illya decided not to spend too much time pondering on why Ecks could sit on things. "You will have to get used to it if you aren't going to move on," he said matter-of-factly.

"I would _like_ to move on, Kuryakin. I don't know how." Ecks started to slouch. "What about your offer of a vodun priestess or a witch doctor?"

"I wasn't fully serious."

"I didn't think so."

Illya finally looked up again. "I still would certainly like you gone. So far your presence has merely been irritating, but it could actually be dangerous if you appear in the middle of a case."

Ecks straightened and sneered at him. "You think I would deliberately endanger you or Solo if that happened?"

"You wouldn't have to do anything deliberately," Illya pointed out. "Just appearing out of nowhere could startle me enough that the entire assignment could turn against us, depending on what was happening at the moment." He paused. "But as for whether you would do it deliberately . . ." He looked hard at the strange ghost. "I couldn't say. I do not trust you, yet I believed you when you said you wouldn't try to take revenge on me. Still, if you actually found yourself in a situation where you could do it so easily, perhaps it would be too much of a temptation for you."

Ecks frowned. "I would hate to think I'm that weak. Would you be tempted to take revenge were this situation reversed?"

"No," Illya said flatly. "Not if the situation were reversed exactly. Now, if I was angry about someone other than myself being harmed . . ." His eyes narrowed. "I might do it."

"I might as well," Ecks acknowledged. "But all that aside, if you really want me gone, Kuryakin, you're probably going to have to do something about it such as what you already suggested."

"Or I could find a Catholic priest to perform an exorcism," Illya grunted.

"Isn't that only for demons and evil spirits?" Ecks frowned.

" _Evil_ is a relative term."

Ecks got up from the chair and started to circle the desk again. "And I am evil to you, I know."

"Just remember that _you_ said that." Illya's fingers flew over the keys.

"You must feel so good about yourself, having eliminated such a _dangerous_ threat."

"There are worse than you out there. But yes, I feel good about eliminating anyone who is an enemy."

"Or you _did,_ until Solo made you question killing me."

Illya scowled. "You will probably always bring that up, won't you."

"Probably," Ecks sneered. "At least, as long as I'm around."

"Illya?"

Illya jumped a mile and turned to face the doorway. "I'm still working on the report, Napoleon."

"And talking to someone again?" Napoleon gave him a look that was a mix of confusion, suspicion, and concern.

"I . . ." Illya frowned more as he noticed Ecks was gone. "I must have been scolding myself for taking so long."

"Uh huh." From Napoleon's tone, he clearly didn't believe it. But he also wasn't going to push at this point. "Just bring it to Mr. Waverly's office when you're done," he said as he turned away.

Illya sighed to himself when he was alone again. There had been too many close calls in the last twelve hours. There could potentially be many more. Maybe he could have a talk with Napoleon later today and describe a hypothetical situation to see what Napoleon's reaction and advice would be. Of course, Napoleon probably wouldn't be fooled by the "hypothetical situation" chestnut.

"What am I going to do about you, Mr. Ecks?" Illya muttered as he covered his face with a hand. "You are going to drive me out of my mind before this is over."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, home shopping networks didn't exist when the show first aired. Neither, I imagine, did marathons of ended shows. But since I don't feel the series is a necessary period piece and don't write it as such, that's the explanation for those lines. And it's just such a small thing anyway that I can't imagine it would be too distracting for those who prefer it as a period piece.

Illya supposed he really shouldn’t have been surprised when he entered his bathroom for a late-night shower and found Mr. Ecks sitting on the counter. He gave the spirit a flat look. “You really don't have anything better to do with your afterlife.”

Ecks shrugged. “I'm still just as perplexed as you are, Kuryakin. And increasingly annoyed. I did what you said; I thought about whether or not any bitterness I hold could be keeping me here.”

"And?"

"I am bitter, yes. Even angry. But I don't think that's what's binding me to this plane."

“Well, whatever.” Illya started to pull off his turtleneck shirt. “I am going to take a shower.”

“Go right ahead,” Ecks returned with a blasé sweep of his arm.

“Are you planning to park there the entire time?” Illya asked.

“I’m not especially planning anything. You know it’s out of my control whether I stay or go.”

Unimpressed, Illya asked, “And what would you do if it wasn’t?”

“As I said, I have no interest in being here.” Ecks folded his arms. “If I was free to do as I please, I could certainly find better things to do than watch you wash up for the night.”

“I only wish I could arrange it for you,” Illya grunted as he finished disrobing and climbed into the tub. He pulled the shower curtain forward with a cold and metallic ching.

Ecks kept sitting where he was. "How did Mr. Waverly like your report?" he asked as Illya turned the water on.

"He appreciated the quality of the composition. Not so much what it said."

"I wouldn't think so." Ecks paused. "By the way, I've been wondering something."

"You've never been shy about sharing your opinions."

"The first time I came to you, you said that Solo made you wonder whether you should have stabbed me. You also said that you discussed whether those on the opposing side are always bad and that if I was not, maybe I wouldn't go to Hell, if such a place exists." Ecks jumped down from the counter. "That isn't how you've been behaving lately."

"There is no contradiction. If there is a God, it's up to Him to judge what you are and where you are to go. However, not knowing God's mind or yours, I am left with my own, human thoughts. And I feel far less generous towards you than God might. Especially when I cannot be free of you."

"Fair enough."

Illya opened the curtain just slightly, revealing his soap-covered hair. "I also told you at that time that our discussion erased any lingering doubts from my mind as to whether or not I should have stabbed you. I wasn't going to be bound by such doubts any longer, since it was too late to do anything about them."

"And I said it was easy to say something. Not so easy to do it." Ecks looked entertained.

Illya looked like a storm cloud as he disappeared behind the curtain again.

"It's funny how being dead makes you miss the simplest pleasures," Ecks mused. "I would love to be capable of taking a shower again."

"And here I always heard that being dead distances you from all aspects of being alive. That you even seem detached from worries and cares and loved ones and have no desire to return."

"And you believed that tripe?" Ecks scoffed.

"As you know, I was quite skeptical of everything supernatural until just recently. But on the one hand, it seemed logical to me that a decent afterlife should be so fulfilling that you wouldn't want to leave. On the other hand, it was difficult to imagine not wanting to be with your loved ones above all else."

"Some things they say are true," Ecks said. "All of my senses are enhanced. In some ways, my existence has never felt so real. But I would happily trade all of that just to be alive again and with Wye. Only you say he's dead as well."

"He is."

"Then I would trade it just to find him."

Illya switched off the water and pulled the curtain back. As he stepped out on the bath rug, he said, "Isn't it odd that no one has come to collect you? I've also heard that spirits come to do that, whether it's The Grim Reaper, an Angel of Death, or even a loved one."

"I've wondered about that," Ecks admitted. "But you've also heard about those stuck in Limbo; you suggested that was my state. Maybe no one comes to collect them until they're ready to be collected."

"So it might seem." Illya opened the cupboard and pulled out a large towel. As he began to dry himself off, Ecks backed up and climbed back onto the counter. Illya gave him a withering look. "This is the first and hopefully only time I have ever showered with an audience. Do you plan to watch me go to bed too?"

Ecks shrugged. "Watching you sleep sounds dull. Watching you shower was dull too, for that matter." He smirked. "I'd rather read a book, only I can't turn pages."

"If it will keep you occupied for a while, I will turn on my television or the radio for you," Illya said. "But the volume would have to be low, both for my sake and the neighbors'."

"I don't need it very loud, especially now." Ecks regarded him in amused surprise. "You're being awfully accommodating, Kuryakin."

"I just want a good night's sleep as opposed to entertaining you for hours on end," Illya grunted. "Turning on the television would be welcome if it would accomplish that."

Soon he had dressed and was heading for the living room. Ecks trailed after him, settling in the chair while Illya crossed to the television set. "What's even on at this hour?" he wondered as he whipped off his sunglasses.

Illya glanced at the clock. "Mostly old motion pictures and reruns of situation comedies. And probably those home shopping networks." He paused. "What do you like?"

"A little of everything, but mostly science-fiction," Ecks answered with a cheeky smile.

"Then I will put it on the October marathon of The Twilight Zone," Illya said flatly. "You will have to be satisfied with that."

"That's fine with me," Ecks replied.

Illya plodded out of the room as the eerie strains of the show's theme song wafted out from the set. "My life at this point in time would make an excellent episode of The Twilight Zone," he muttered to himself.

"I heard that," Ecks grinned.

"Do you disagree?" Illya said without skipping a beat.

"No," Ecks smirked.

"I thought not." Illya left, grateful that he could shut his bedroom door and hoping against hope that the show would not enter into his dreams.

****

Illya wasn't sure how long he had been asleep when some insistent knocking broke the flow of the looping Twilight Zone theme that had been playing in the background of all his dreams. Without even thinking, he rose off the bed with the comforter still on his back and the annoyed comment, "You've already awakened me, Mr. Ecks. You realize that, don't you?" Then, chagrined, he pushed the quilt onto the bed and hoped he hadn't spoke loud enough to be overheard by the living.

When he opened the door and entered the living room, he was greeted by the odd sight of Ecks apparently asleep in the chair while the marathon continued. He stared at the spectre as he made his way to the front door, unable to keep from wondering if Ecks was playing at being asleep just to unsettle him. After all, spirits didn't sleep . . . did they?

He was still looking at Ecks as he opened the door. "Yes?"

"Illya, I've been trying to reach you for almost an hour," Napoleon exclaimed. "Is your communicator off?"

Illya started and looked to his partner. "It isn't supposed to be. I must have accidentally shut it off when I was disrobing for a shower." Or worse, he suddenly realized. He might have left the communicator in his pocket when he threw the used clothes into the hamper. That wasn't like him at all. This situation with Mr. Ecks was stressing him out more than he had even thought.

Indeed, Napoleon was giving him a very odd look. "You're usually so careful about your communicator unless something has gone wrong. Actually, Illya, you've been acting strange for the last few days. I can see it's obvious that you don't want to tell me, but if it's starting to interfere with your work . . ."

"It won't!" Illya abruptly interrupted. "I'm sorry, Napoleon. I'm still unhappy about our latest case."

"Yes, but that should make you want to improve, not slack off," Napoleon pointed out. "No, it's definitely something else."

"I will go find my communicator," Illya said, turning away from the door. "What is it? A new case?"

"Something came up all of a sudden," Napoleon confirmed. "Mr. Waverly briefed me. I'll brief you on the way to the airport."

"Fine." Illya looked over at the chair again while striding past. Ecks stirred, roused by all the talking, and blinked at Illya in a confused way that suggested he truly had been asleep. Disturbed, Illya looked away.

"What is it about that chair?" Napoleon wondered. "And I didn't know you were into The Twilight Zone."

"It's rather cerebral," Illya said, not unhonestly. "You know I enjoy things that make me think."

"True." Napoleon followed Illya to the bathroom, where Illya flung open the hamper and dug through the new arrivals. "Is it there?"

Illya straightened after a moment. "Yes." He held up the communicator, overcome anew with frustration at himself. "I'll pack right away. Where are we going?"

"Europe," Napoleon replied, still unsettled about Illya's behavior. "Switzerland, to be exact."

"Good," said Illya. "I'm not in the mood for someplace hot."

"I thought that would please you," Napoleon agreed. "I still have to pack myself, so I'll be back in fifteen minutes." He headed for the front door. "Shall I turn off your television?"

"No!" Illya immediately exclaimed. "I mean . . . thank you, Napoleon. I will take care of it on my way out."

Napoleon quirked an eyebrow. "Alright."

Illya sighed. He could just imagine what Napoleon was thinking. _It isn't like you to be so interested in anything on television._ And of course it wasn't. Illya casually liked some shows, but he wasn't a hardcore fan of anything. In their line of work, there really wasn't time for that.

He headed back to his bedroom when he saw Napoleon leave the apartment. As he opened his suitcase and began packing clothing appropriate for Switzerland's autumn climate, he had the sense that Ecks had come to his doorway.

"What was with your pretending to be asleep?" Illya snapped without turning around. "It wasn't amusing."

"I swear, Kuryakin, I don't know," Ecks retorted. "I'm as confused as you are. Maybe more. I honestly seemed to doze off for a few minutes. And while I was in that state, I had the strangest sensation that I was lying flat on something soft."

Illya paused in the middle of packing some shirts. "Provided you are telling the truth, you must have sensed the coffin in which you are buried." Which was more than a little chilling when Illya thought about it.

"I didn't like it, Kuryakin. I didn't like it _at all._ " There was no lie in Ecks' voice. He was absolutely shaken.

"Well, I don't know how to help you," Illya answered. "Napoleon will be back in a few minutes and we'll have to leave. You'll have to stay here with the television."

"No!" Ecks ran over to Illya, panic clearly in his voice and his face. "You're the only one who can see and hear me! I don't want to stay where I don't exist for anyone. I want to stick with you until I disappear again!"

Illya stared at him. On the one hand, it was certainly different to see his enemy so vulnerable and on the verge of hysteria. Illya took no great pleasure in it. But Ecks' own choices had led to his fate and Illya couldn't see his way clear to allowing a ghost to follow him to Switzerland on assignment.

Not that he could really stop it, if Ecks was determined to come.

"Why are we even having this discussion?" Illya frowned, not allowing Ecks to see his inner debate. "We both know you do not need my permission. You appear and disappear against your will, and while you are here, you choose to follow me around and I can do nothing about it. If you want to invite yourself on this assignment, I unfortunately cannot stop you."

"I won't deliberately put you or Solo in danger," Ecks insisted. "I like to tease you and try to get a rise out of you, but I've never done anything malevolent during these meetings, have I?"

"No. But again, what is the point of asking me?" Illya slammed the suitcase shut.

Ecks leaned forward over the bed, spreading his hands on the valise. "I know you don't want to think it, Kuryakin, but since I can't control when and where I come and go, I have to wonder if you can."

Illya stiffened. "You think I am summoning you over and over from the afterlife?!"

"It's a possibility."

"And you accused me of putting too much value on myself," Illya grunted. "Now you think that you matter enough to me that I would unconsciously call you forth? You were completely insignificant to me, just one more enemy agent I had to kill in the course of my duty! I wouldn't have thought any more about you if Mr. Wye hadn't made such a fuss over your death!"

Ecks straightened, completely undaunted. "And if Solo hadn't suggested your action was too rash." He looked at Illya in cold, hard determination. "Only then did you question anything. Even if you decided it was still justified, you doubted for a while. My death was the only one you carried such feelings about in a long time, probably ever since you developed your strong feelings against the enemy."

Illya didn't want to admit that was true. "If you truly believe I'm calling you and sending you back, why not simply ask me to send you back again instead of wanting to come to Switzerland with me?" He grabbed the suitcase by the handle and yanked it off the bed.

"Because . . ." Ecks hesitated for a long moment before answering. "Because death isn't at all what I thought it would be. What I _hoped_ it would be. As I said, the only time I sense anything anymore is when I end up where you are. And if death really is an endless sleep without any Heaven or Hell or seeing departed loved ones . . ." He trembled. "I want to fight it off as long as I can."

Illya gripped the suitcase handle. He also didn't want to admit how troubling and downright haunting Ecks' words were. For part of his growing-up years, he had been taught that there was nothing after death. He hadn't wanted to believe it, and he hadn't found any concrete proof in either direction, so he had just continued to wonder. Now Ecks turned up with many of the same questions and concerns. It was a strange coincidence.

What if Ecks had been a phantom of his mind all along, as Illya had thought at first? What if he was just projecting Illya's hopes and fears and Illya truly needed medical help for seeing him?

. . . Or what if he really _was_ there, as Illya had ended up deciding later?

A knock at the front door startled them both. "I'm ready to go, Illya," Napoleon called. "We need to leave."

"I'm coming!" Illya called back.

Not acknowledging Mr. Ecks, he hurried into the living room and switched off the television before opening the door to meet Napoleon.

He also didn't acknowledge the grateful look as Ecks followed him out. But he did notice it.


	5. Chapter 5

Both to Illya's surprise and relief, Mr. Ecks stayed scarce during the next hours. Illya didn't see him at all on the flight—although he heard several people complaining of an odd chill in First Class and had to sigh knowingly to himself.

Napoleon still wondered what was going on with Illya, but he wisely hadn't asked, realizing it was a matter that should be discussed more in private and not while many people were all around them on a plane. He also didn't ask when they landed in Switzerland and were taken to the hotel. Instead he set his luggage down in their suite and called Mr. Waverly to let him know they had arrived. Then, since there was nothing they could do until they made contact with their informant sometime later, he opted to take a shower.

Illya sighed, idly wandering around the suite and over to the glass balcony doors. When a figure suddenly materialized on the other side of the glass, looking in at him, he jumped back. "I wondered if you had stayed behind in First Class," he said sarcastically.

"Not me," Ecks replied. He phased through the door. "I wanted to see how good I still was at being a spy on the flight and if I could fool you by hiding."

"You might have gotten away with it if you hadn't created a cold spot," Illya grunted.

"I'm surprised they felt anything at all," Ecks said. "I wonder if I like or dislike that they did."

Illya could see he was troubled. "Cold spots are supposedly one of the classic signs of a ghost present," he said. "That would indicate that now I am not the only one aware of you."

"Yes, but does that mean I'm growing more accustomed to being dead?" Ecks started to pace. "I don't want to be dead, Kuryakin! I want to live!"

"It's a little late for that now," Illya retorted. "Perhaps those feelings are even what's binding you to this plane instead of it being some unconscious guilt of mine." He paused. "You say that your senses have all been enhanced. Do you honestly believe that would happen if death is nothing more than oblivion?"

"It doesn't sound logical," Ecks slowly agreed. "But Wye would say that life is hardly ever logical. Why should death be any different?"

"A very cynical sort, your Mr. Wye," said Illya. "Not that I disagree with him on that matter."

Ecks stopped pacing near where Illya was standing. "I had more of those bizarre sleeping spells on the plane." He shuddered. "Twice I dozed off and had that same sensation of lying flat on something soft, even though I wasn't."

Illya frowned. "Do you have any other sensations when that happens?"

"Yes," Ecks admitted. "It feels as though something is pulling on me, calling me to come. Maybe that's the spirit come to collect, as you were saying. Only it still isn't working. I don't know how to answer the call."

"Have you tried letting yourself go?" Illya asked. "Or do you always just fight to wake up?"

"I've tried both. But as you can see, I'm still here." Ecks turned to look at him. "Can you tell me why, Kuryakin? Can you explain why neither approach does anything to make me leave?"

"No, I cannot." Illya walked past him, carrying his suitcase to one of the bedrooms. "Considering both my lack of experience and belief, I do not even wish to try. It would seem that whatever is binding you here is stronger than even this pull on your spirit. And to be perfectly honest, that is rather disturbing."

"Yes, it is," Ecks agreed as he followed Illya as far as the doorway. "I don't like this, Kuryakin. I want to go to Wye. Why would I resist the pull?"

"I cannot imagine." Illya hauled his suitcase onto the bed and unlocked it. "In any case, I will need to leave soon to begin our assignment. Why don't you try going to a church and see if the priest can see or hear you?"

"I tried that when I got off the plane," Ecks muttered. "It didn't work."

"Then I suppose you're planning to follow Napoleon and me around," Illya said in resigned irritation.

"I still don't want to let you out of my sight for more than a few minutes," Ecks said. "Somehow you have to be the key to what's stalling me here!"

"Which isn't a pleasant thought," Illya scowled. "Or a sensible one. I can't be binding you here. I wouldn't do that, even unconsciously!"

"Is that terribly sensible, to think that you would know what your unconscious mind would do?" Ecks retorted.

"I could ask you the same question," Illya smoothly replied.

"Illya?"

Both men jumped at the sound of Napoleon's voice coming from the general direction of the bathroom. Then, steeling himself against whatever possible questions might be forthcoming now, Illya drew a deep breath and left the bedroom to find him. "Yes, Napoleon?"

Napoleon was leaning half-out the door, his hair dripping wet. "Did our informant call?"

"No," Illya said, even as he realized with a sinking stomach why Napoleon was likely asking right now.

"Oh." Napoleon frowned. "I thought I heard talking."

"Most likely from the next suite," Illya said without skipping a beat.

"Hmm. Perhaps. For the price of a room, the walls shouldn't be paper-thin here." Napoleon vanished back into the bathroom to get dressed.

Illya sighed, slumping against the wall and staring at the ceiling. "You had better not talk to me if you insist on coming with us," he quietly scolded. "I cannot afford to have anything happen that could make it look as though I've lost my mind. Our informant might change his mind about talking to us."

"I'll be good," Ecks said as he leaned on the wall with an elbow. "I'll be very good. But I still say it would be more logical to tell Solo what's going on. Haven't you ever thought about the irony that you've been having deeper conversations with me, your enemy, than you usually have with your partner?"

"It has occurred to me. If this persists for much longer, I likely shall tell Napoleon," Illya wearily said.

****

Ecks kept his word. He was again scarce when Napoleon and Illya set out for their meeting, only now and then making a rhetorical comment on the mission or the city before fading into the shadows again. As the mission persisted, Illya only caught glimpses of him once in a while.

The assignment was, of course, the most important thing to Illya, and with Ecks mostly staying out of sight, Illya largely managed to forget about him altogether. But when he got a quiet moment and could stop to think, he did wonder what was happening to his ghostly companion and why.

Apparently something was pulling him in two different directions: whatever wanted him to move on and whatever (or whoever) was causing him to stay. And was Illya the latter? If he was, was his waning attention causing the pull to leave to become more and more prominent?

What if Illya wasn't responsible, as Illya really wanted to believe? Then the only option seemed to be that Ecks himself was causing his lingering. He had admitted he was bitter and angry at Illya for killing him. And he had admitted that he didn't want to be dead. Those seemed like perfectly logical reasons why he could not move on. But were they the reasons?

"Illya?"

He looked up as Napoleon approached the hotel dining room table where Illya had been sitting and thinking. "Oh. Hello, Napoleon." He glanced around for Ecks, but as before, he was absent. Normally he would come out when Illya was alone, so perhaps it was one of those periods where he simply wasn't there. And was . . . where?

Napoleon slid into the seat across from him. "Penny for your thoughts?"

Illya gave a weary sigh. He was still unsure that he wanted to say he was being haunted, but by this point he didn't feel like entirely brushing the matter off, either. "What do you think will happen to us when we die?" he asked, pushing an unused napkin around the table with his finger.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I think you already know that I believe in the traditional ideas of Heaven and Hell."

"What about Limbo? Being stranded on Earth? An in-between place?"

"I . . . don't know that I've ever put much stock in Limbo." Napoleon frowned. "Or are you talking about ghosts?"

"I'm talking about spies who have lost their usefulness." Illya looked up at him. "What happens to people like us? Will we move on to Heaven or Hell or whatever there is? Or will we linger on Earth because we cannot accept that our time here is over?"

"I've never thought about that, either," Napoleon admitted. "I suppose I assumed that we would be glad to be at rest, free of the cares of the world."

"But would we?" Illya crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward. "Many common ghost stories seem to revolve around the idea that the ghosts are people who, for one reason or another, cannot move on or accept their deaths. Some of them don't want to, while others seem to be emotionally incapable of it."

"Illya, I . . . don't know what to say. I guess it's possible that there would be people who wouldn't want to give up their mortal lives or occupations, including some spies." Napoleon peered at him in concern. "What makes you think about things like this now?"

Illya sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I assumed all U.N.C.L.E. agents think about death. They have to, since the possibility is very real every day that they might not live to see another."

"True. I've just never heard you give voice to thoughts like this before. Usually you either seem to feel that nothing will happen after death or that no one can really know and you'd rather not bother thinking about it."

A shrug. "We wonder as it is what will happen when our time at U.N.C.L.E. is over, if we live to see the end of it. What Bryn Watson said about us in London is true, of course—just like Albert Sully, we are both most alive when death is very near. I do not like the thought of not being able to serve a useful purpose."

"Is that what this is about?" Napoleon's eyes flickered with sudden understanding. "Now that I think of it, you have been behaving strangely ever since that mission."

"That's . . . a large part of it," Illya said honestly.

"And perhaps it's about the dead enemy agent as well?" Napoleon gently prompted.

"Mr. Ecks," Illya supplied, almost without thinking. "Yes, it's also about him. I still wonder what will happen to him."

"I had thoughts like that when I first started out as an agent," Napoleon said. "I suppose I never really stopped; it may be part of the reason why I fully support U.N.C.L.E.'s policies of, in general, granting mercy to the enemy."

"Yet you generally seem to know when they do not deserve it," Illya added.

Napoleon sighed. "Does anyone really know that? Perhaps determining that is a way of playing God. Nevertheless, you're right that I do try to make good judgments on who should receive U.N.C.L.E.'s sleeping darts and who should not."

"I did not regret stabbing Mr. Ecks until you suggested it wasn't necessary." Illya's expression darkened. "I thought I had gotten over it, but instead it has been on my mind a great deal since then."

"It hasn't been that long," Napoleon said. "Perhaps with some more time those thoughts will fade. However, if you learned anything from that incident, I hope that will not fade, but will become part of the way you handle yourself as an agent."

"Maybe it will." Illya hesitated again. "What about his friend Mr. Wye? Do you think they will meet each other again, if there is anything after death?"

"I wouldn't know that, either," Napoleon said. "But when they clearly cared so much about each other, I hope that they would be allowed to stay together."

"And if not, perhaps that would be part of their punishment for what they did."

"Illya . . ." Napoleon regarded his partner in kindness as well as in concern. "I understand your concerns. Believe me, I do. But you're going to drive yourself crazy if you keep thinking about it. Somehow you need to put it behind you and move on."

"Yes, Napoleon, I realize that." Illya looked over his shoulder, where Mr. Ecks had just appeared. "But it isn't so easy."

"No, it isn't," Napoleon agreed. "But I'm here for you if you want to talk about it further."

"Thank you." Illya deliberately looked away from the spectre. "I may."

Napoleon nodded in understanding and started to get up. "I'd better check in with Mr. Waverly and let him know of our progress."

"Go ahead." Illya watched him stand and leave.

Ecks slid into the same seat almost immediately. "You told him?"

"Not about you," Illya grunted. "But yes, I spoke to him about some concerns your presence has brought to my mind."

"Well, that's something." Ecks folded his arms on the table. "I think you'll be a lot happier if you tell him everything."

"Perhaps. It did feel good to reveal some of my innermost thoughts."

Ecks sighed. Even with the sunglasses, he looked sad. "It's been difficult, watching you and Solo on your mission."

"Is that why I haven't seen much of you lately?" Illya asked.

"Oh, I've been here, Kuryakin. Most of the time. But I haven't liked it. It only drives home that it's something I can no longer take part in. You and Solo chasing down informants, having mysterious meetings, planning what to do next to complete your assignments. . . . That used to be me and Wye."

"And what were some of your assignments?" Illya asked with definite dripping sarcasm. "How to break the world instead of trying to save it?"

Ecks whipped off his sunglasses, letting Illya see his annoyed and angry eyes. "Our assignments weren't that different from yours, most of the time. Actually, a lot of them involved clashes with other extremist organizations, such as THRUSH and KAOS." He sneered. "We never got along with them."

"No, I wouldn't think so," Illya grunted. "Every one of those organizations wishes to rule the world. They wouldn't take kindly to other like-minded organizations."

"We actually stopped their plans sometimes," Ecks giggled. "Oh, the stories I could tell you, if I felt like it."

"And if I felt like listening," Illya shot back.

"Anyway, none of that is the point," Ecks said impatiently as he quickly sobered again. "I want to be alive, to be able to use my skills as I always have. I was groomed to be a spy in my childhood. It's the only type of life I've ever known."

"Groomed to be a spy for an extremist organization," Illya inserted.

"Well, I don't wish I was back to that again," Ecks snapped. "I just want to be useful. I'm a spy, Kuryakin, just as you are. That doesn't change because I'm dead. It won't change when you're dead, either."

"I wouldn't think so." Illya looked at him steadily. "But I would hope my afterlife is not as nebulous as yours."

Ecks sneered. "Because you're more deserving of a better one? It will be interesting to find out, won't it."

"Yes, it will." Illya paused. "Are you still feeling the pull to leave?"

"Yes." Ecks sighed. He looked far more beaten-down and resigned than on their other meetings. "It comes and goes. I suppose there's no use resisting it. Maybe I still have been in my mind, even when I think I'm not. Maybe that's why nothing happens despite my trying to accept it."

For some reason, Illya wasn't sure he liked seeing Ecks take such a defeatist attitude. "I don't know what to tell you," he said, inadvertently echoing Napoleon's words. "If we are alike, then we are both fighters. I wouldn't want to give in to a pull of something I didn't want."

"But we should also know when to surrender, don't you think?" Ecks returned.

Illya sighed. "That is a loaded question. Is it the time or surrender or is it not? That is what I cannot tell you."

"When I'm dead, I should move on," Ecks objected.

"To what?" Illya shot back. "If death is oblivion, then I would never cease fighting against it if I had the chance."

"That is what I want to know!" Ecks exclaimed. "What death is. If death is oblivion, then I want to find Wye and drag him back to awareness as I have been dragged. We will exist as wandering spirits if that is the only way to live on after death."

"And if there is something more?"

"Then I want to answer this insistent call and find it." Ecks stood.

"You will find no further answers from me," Illya said.

"I know." And then he was gone, just like that.

Illya slumped back in his chair. Had he seen Ecks for the last time? Had Ecks vanished of his own will this time . . . or was this just like all the prior times and he would be back? And if it was the last time, did Illya really want their encounters to end so abruptly, so mysteriously, and not know the reason why? Ecks held the answers to existing after death. If Illya could actually believe in that and have the hope of seeing his departed loved ones again someday, then Ecks would have done him an immeasurable service by his repeated pestering. Illya would actually be grateful to him despite the fact that Illya still detested him.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

Illya jumped a mile at Napoleon's voice. "You might be surprised," he half-muttered to himself.

"Well, Mr. Waverly says we're to report back to the rendenvous spot immediately, even though our informant has disappeared. Maybe he will reappear."

"Alright." Illya pushed himself up. "Let's go."

He looked over his shoulder as he followed Napoleon out. _Where did you go, Mr. Ecks? Have you found your answers or are you still just as confused? Will you come back?_

_And will I ever know the answers you are seeking?_


	6. Chapter 6

Ecks didn't reappear for the rest of the mission or the flight back, and Illya had plenty of time to think about their strange meetings and his feelings about the last one.

Why had it bothered him so much when Ecks had acted resigned to his fate? They both knew he was dead. And Illya hadn't liked Ecks hanging around him. He had wanted it to stop. So why had he instead encouraged Ecks to fight back against death if it truly was oblivion? Did the thought of death as a nothingness bother him more than Ecks' obnoxious personality?

Napoleon was right that Illya had usually either felt that death was a nothingness or that he really hadn't wanted to think about it. The phantom Ecks' arrival on the scene was the first time Illya's stance had ever really been challenged. With the ghost had come a smidgen of hope, and Illya didn't like to have that taken away with Ecks' loss of hope.

He was, therefore, not entirely annoyed when Ecks appeared before him back in the apartment several days later. "I thought you had gone on to whatever fate awaited you," he commented.

"I still don't know what fate 'awaits' me," Ecks said in frustration. "I've just been in oblivion again, as before. I have no choice over what happens to me; I come and go against my will, as you already surmised."

Illya folded his arms. "Then it would seem that death truly is a nothingness, if not for these bizarre reappearances. I am certain that I am not causing them either."

Ecks sighed. "The fact is, Kuryakin, if even the dead don't know what's going on, I would say that there's no hope whatsoever."

"I don't want to believe that," Illya snapped. "Since there are these bizarre reappearances, there must be more going on than meets the eye. As a child, I was taught that there was nothing after death. You have proved that there is something. I am going to cling to that 'something' and hope that there is more."

That brought a hesitation. "Then, Kuryakin, while you're hoping, I have a small request to make."

Illya raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"Remember me." Ecks removed his sunglasses to look him straight in the eyes. "We both know that spies live their lives in the shadows and are quietly forgotten, if they were ever remembered at all. The only ones who think of them are their loved ones and their enemies. I have no living loved ones anymore. That leaves you, as my enemy. I'd like to think that I haven't been entirely forgotten. In that way, I can still live on."

"I doubt I could ever forget you, Mr. Ecks," Illya said flatly. "Even if I would try with all my might."

Ecks smirked. "By the way, how did your mission go?"

"Well enough," Illya answered. "We righted THRUSH's wrongs and quietly slipped away again."

"Hooray for you," said Ecks. "The understated life of a spy, as usual."

"There were quite a few people who saw us when we chased a THRUSH spy through a ski resort," Illya said stiffly.

"They won't remember you in a week," Ecks said in a flippant tone.

"Less than a week," Illya returned. "I have no foolish notions that spies are well-remembered. I know the truth, just as you do."

"I would hope so," Ecks shot back.

Illya sighed wearily and crossed the room to his chair. "So in what manner do you plan to tease me tonight?"

"Oh, I don't know," Ecks said cheekily. "The possibilities are endless."

"Or how about you simply be quiet and read over my shoulder if I choose an English edition of a book tonight?" Illya asked, his voice very dry.

"Do you have any?" Ecks immediately returned.

"Yes." Illya slipped around the chair to the bookcase against the wall and selected a thick volume. "An unabridged English translation of _Les Miserables_."

Ecks shrugged. "Fine by me."

It was strange to sit there and read and know that a ghost was looking over his shoulder. Every now and then Ecks would comment on what they were reading and Illya would reply, but for the most part Ecks cooperated and read quietly. It was actually, oddly enough, peaceful and pleasant. Although they had been enemies in life, and had continued to be antagonistic towards each other after Ecks' death, tonight they had put it all aside. Tonight they were just two spies . . . no, two people reading a book.

Illya wasn't sure when he realized Ecks was no longer there. He was caught up in the events of the chapter and suddenly came back to himself with the feeling that he was alone. Upon looking over his shoulder, he saw that he was.

He frowned as he closed the book and stood up. Perhaps Ecks had grown bored and decided to explore. Somehow, however, he knew that wasn't it. Ecks was gone again. A quick search of the apartment confirmed it.

He was never sure whether Ecks would return or not, since oftentimes days went by before seeing him again. But after weeks passed with no sign of him, Illya began to suspect that he had heard from his strange companion for the last time. He still knew no better than before what the secrets of death were, or if Ecks had found peace, but he liked to think, even to hope, that he had.

"Goodbye, Mr. Ecks," he said to the night as he stood on his apartment balcony some time later. "Perhaps wherever you are, you have found Mr. Wye again and are happy. I can't really imagine any afterlife could be a dull nothingness with the two of you in it."

He wished that Ecks would have returned to tell him what he had found. Perhaps Ecks couldn't, rather than wouldn't. Perhaps Illya would never know until he died himself. And he hoped that would not be forthcoming soon.

With a resigned sigh, he turned and went back into the apartment.

****

The oblivion had returned as soon as he had left Kuryakin's flat against his will. As before, he didn't know where he was or what he was lying on or if this was what death truly was. Nor did he know why there seemed to be such a fog over his mind and his thoughts. If he really thought he was lying in his coffin, he would be in a state of panic. But he could not dredge up enough emotion to really care or try to change his fate. He didn't even seem to want to try; all he wanted to do was sleep. Just sleep. . . .

But then he wasn't asleep any more and it wasn't dark around him at all and a stranger was looking down at him.

"Good evening," the stranger greeted.

Ecks stared at him, bewildered, uncomprehending. "What . . . where is this?"

"The same hospital where your chum brought you weeks ago. I'm Doctor Madsen."

Ecks grunted. "Hospital? Doctor?" He slowly raised his hand, giving a blank stare to the thing clamped around one of his fingers. "I . . . I can't be alive. . . . It's impossible."

"You bloody well didn't make it easy," the doctor told him. "We almost lost you several times that first day, and after complications set in, you slipped into a coma. We weren't sure you'd ever come out of it."

Ecks was half-listening. He was peering down at the mattress. "Not a coffin," he mumbled in realization. "A bed. And it wasn't a pull to leave; it was a pull to come back. I really am alive!" Then, stiffening at a remembrance that was already vague in his mind, he looked back up at the doctor. "What about my friend?"

The physician looked caught. ". . . He hasn't been back," he quietly admitted. "We don't know what happened to him."

Ecks turned away, closing his eyes in grief. For some reason, he had a memory of being told that Wye was dead. But he was alive. Why couldn't Wye have survived too? No, he wouldn't believe Wye was dead. Not yet.

He opened his eyes again. "He'll still come," he insisted. "He won't leave me."

The doctor didn't look convinced, but he slowly nodded. "We'll see," he said, writing something on his clipboard. "Now, I need to examine you, and after that you should try to get some proper sleep. Being in a coma isn't the same thing as getting a decent rest."

"No, it isn't," Ecks mumbled. Especially not when he had the feeling he had been wandering during a lot of that time.

He shuddered. Already those memories were vague, and perhaps when he woke up more fully he wouldn't remember them at all, but right now he remembered them well enough to know that he and others had thought he was dead. And he wasn't; death was still a mystery to him. Except . . . now he knew that there was something that apparently carried on after it. If there wasn't, he couldn't have wandered so extensively.

Of course, it could have all been a product of hallucinations and other delusions caused by his injuries and illness. Maybe he had put assorted things together that he had heard about death and had created a bizarre fantasy world for himself in which he took part in repeated make-believe out-of-body experiences. But he hadn't known the name of the agent who had stabbed him. Would he have invented the name _Kuryakin_?

He frowned. In the end, in spite of any doubts he might have, he really believed that everything he thought he had experienced had been real. Maybe when he felt better he could try to do some research, such as whether Solo and Kuryakin had actually been on a mission to Switzerland recently. For now, he was more concerned with finding his partner and friend.

He watched the doctor examining him, but his thoughts continued to roam far beyond the hospital room. He didn't know why he had always ended up with Kuryakin when he had wandered. He probably never would. But he supposed it had probably been his own restlessness, rather than anything Kuryakin had done. He doubted Kuryakin would have repeatedly sent for him.

_Kuryakin . . . I'm sorry I didn't get the answers you sought, but I'm not sorry as to the reason why. After I find Wye, perhaps we will meet again and we'll have that battle of wits and skills._

He smiled to himself as he settled back against the pillow.


End file.
